Dick Summer Connection

by Bill Ervolino

I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve.
I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.
So, I was wrong. Sue me.

I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation.
“I know these family things can be a little weird,” I told her, “but my folks
are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Karen said.

I had only known my mother for 31 years when I told her I’d be bringing Karen with me.
“She’s a very nice girl and she’s really looking forward to meeting all of you.”

“Sounds fine to me,” my mother said.

And that was that.
Two telephone calls.
Two sounds-fine-to-me.
What more could I want?

I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the season — an Italian woman’s reason d’etre.
She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the night.
I should also point out that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it.

She doesn’t clean.
She doesn’t cook.
She doesn’t bake.

And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.

I brought her anyway.

7p.m. –

We arrive.
Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like a cheeseburger and cannily determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father is equally observant. He pulls me into the living room and notes, “She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.”

7:30 p.m. –

Others arrive. Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted gifts.
We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies.
When I offer to make Karen’s plate she says, “Thank you. But none of those things, okay?”
She points to the anchovies. “You don’t like anchovies?” I ask. “I don’t like fish,” Karen announces, as 67 other varieties are baking, broiling and simmering in the next room.

My mother makes the sign of the cross and things are getting uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve.
Karen says, “Knockwurst.”
My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen’s chest,
temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, “Knockers?”

My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot.
None of this is turning out the way I’d hoped.

8:00 p.m. –

Second course.

The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she’ll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take
My “Merry Christmas” napkin from my lap, place it on the “Merry Christmas” tablecloth and walk into the kitchen. “I don’t want to start any trouble,” my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. “But if she pours this on my pasta, I’m going to throw acid in her face.” “Come on,” I tell her. “It’s Christmas. Let her eat what she wants.”
My mother considers the situation, and then nods.
As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder. “Tell me the truth,” she says, “are you serious with this tramp?”
“She’s not a tramp,” I reply. “And I’ve only known her for three weeks.”
“Well, it’s your life”, she tells me, “but if you marry her, she’ll poison you.”

8:30 p.m. –

More fish.
My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights a cigarette.
“Why don’t you give them a little hand?” I politely suggest.
Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
“Dear, you don’t have to do that,” my mother tells her, smiling painfully.
“Oh, okay,” Karen says, putting the forks on the sink.
As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says, “Whoops.”
I vaguely remember that line from Torch Song Trilogy. “Whoops?”
No. “Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft.”

More fish comes out.
After some goading, Karen tries a piece of scungilli, which she describes as “slimy, like worms.” My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a funeral home.
Aunt Mafalde does the same.
Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn’t know what to make of it.
My father’s dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.

10:00 p.m. –
Coffee, dessert. Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel.
When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with cannoli.
I guess it had to happen sooner or later.
Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up cannoli and slaps my mother with it.

“This is fun,” Karen says.

Fun? No. Fun is when you fall down an elevator shaft.
But, amazingly, everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer — even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs and
says,
“Get this bitch out of my house.”

Sounds fine to me.

Tall Beth says she has no trouble reaching that high note at the end of  Dick’s last blog… the problem is the “rat” …

 Hey, Big Louie, how come men so adore fart jokes?  I don’t know any woman who enjoys them or even finds them funny.  But hey, if that’s how a guy wants to make up reasons to amuse himself, why not?  And yes, both Eric and Mark laugh at them more than enough to make up for Brenda and Donna.  But then … they are ladies and find other reasons to be amused.  Like … Mark’s extra long hair … and Eric’s inability to hit the weather vane with the air rifle … Gonna keep laughing, guys?

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, manly, black leather poppa chair in my living room…and I am a very happy guy. It has been a weird and wonderful week. Visits from our sons Eric and Mark and their ladies Brenda and Donna for Thanksgiving, and some shaky connections semi-re-established from some long ago friends on Facebook, and some working on stuff around the house that proved once again that there are 6 stages to tightening a connection between two pipes. Loose, tight, tighter, very tight, over tight, and loose again…quick get a mop. Let’s not go there.

There are lots of things I don’t like about Facebook. But as I told  you, I have a new book out called Staying Happy, Healthy and Hot, and the publisher suggested, pretty much at gunpoint, that I join. So I did. Sort of. I don’t really have the hang of it yet. But I think I’m back in touch with some folks I haven’t talked with in years, and that’s good.

And I’ve set up some radio interviews for the book, which is also good. One of the interviews is with Bradley Jay at WBZ, the station in Boston where I spent a lot of happy years. There’s a story about that station in the book by the way. I’m looking forward to doing the interview, because Bradley sent me an Email that made me think about what the book, and this podcast is really all about. He said, “What is the one question the book brings up that I can ask listeners to answer.” Bradley obviously understands how to start an interview.

What’s the one question that these podcasts and the book is really all about. The real question is, “Are you happy?” And that question is like an onion. There are lots of layers to an onion, and to that question. As you peel an onion, and that kind of question, you sometimes start to cry…and as you keep peeling, you sometimes start crying so hard you start to laugh. Onions and good questions like that can really get to you.

Are you happy? Peel one layer off that question and you come up with, “Are you having any fun?” Fun ignites the “happiness.” Or is it the other way around ? That’s a good question in itself. Lots of the Dreary Drone people say, “How can I have any fun ? I’m suffering from such rejection. My shrink cancelled my last session, and every time I tell my doctor what hurts, he backs away from me. My rejection started when I was a baby. I was born on a cold February night. Do you know how hard it is to nurse through a thick wool sweater ? Besides that, who wants to always be the life of the party. The life of the party almost always winds up asleep on a bed with somebody’s coat over him.”

Big Louie, his own bad self, the chief mustard cutter of the Louie Louie Generation always says, “Figure out what you really want in life before you’re too old to do it. Then as long as you still have some moving parts…for crying out loud…move your parts.” What he means is, are you having any fun?

Fun’s important. Fun makes you happy. When you’re happy, you tend to stay healthy. And when you’re healthy, you’re Hot. I have a lot of fun doing the weekly podcast and blog. Big Louie and I have a lot of fun giving our Louie Louie Generation folks a ‘tude tune up …especially going into the holidays. Gotta get the tingle back in your ‘tude… your attitude.  Christmas is coming, and you need some tingle to make it jingle.

Another reason I do this podcast and another reason for the book, is that if you buy the book, or the CDs on the website, I’ll make some money. But really…I don’t need the money. I’m a long way from being a member of the financial top one percent, but I’m not needy by any means. So I really don’t need more money to be happy. But I do need to feel like I can still connect with some good people and give them a little charge for when their tingle batteries might be running down. That makes me happy. That’s why I loved being on the air…I felt like I could do that in those days. I’m a very happy guy now, to a very great extent because I think I can do it with these blogs and podcasts, and now with the new book. And I think that’s one reason I’m pretty healthy…always have been. And I’ll leave the rest of the Happy, Healthy and Hot sequence up to your imagination.  

Dick’s Details Quiz. (All answers are in the current podcast)

1-   What lesson can we learn about staying safe from termites ?

2-   How long does it take an exotic dancer to shake off 144 calories ?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

We were talking about the sometimes profound effects of peeling an onion a little while ago. There’s a story about that in the Night Connections 2 Personal Audio CD. It’s called, Daddy’s Girl.

You just want to put your arm around her, and give her a little comfortable shoulder time.

Daddy’s Girl is from the Night Connections 2 Personal Audio CD. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or, if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections 2 icon on the home page.

Time to ask for your favorite Christmas memories. What is it that put the best Kris Kringle tingle in your jingle. My email address is dick@dicksummer.com . You don’t have to be a Charles Dickens level writer…just an honest Louie Louie Lad or Lady who has had something wonderful happen at Christmas. Please send your stories. We’ll use some in the next few podcasts, and post even more of them on the blog at www.dicksummer.com/dsblog

We’ll have lots of your Christmas story blogs next week, but we’ll be taking a week off from the podcasts, because David “The podcast master” Summer and his Julie, and my Lady Wonder Wench and I are taking time out to get ready for some pre-Christmas fun. So the next podcast will be the week of December 9^th. You are correct if you are thinking there are some parties involved. I always have fun when people come to my parties. When people come to a party, they always need to use the bathroom. And statistically, 40% of party guests look in your medicine cabinet when they do that. So last time, I put a put a very realistic looking toy rat in mine. It makes me happy to know that I helped my Lady Wonder Wench’s friend “Tall Beth” to set the record for the first human to hit a high F# above high C. 

All right, Big Louie, I KNOW you have a line directly to the person in charge of sex in the after life … there is sex in the after life, isn’t there?  ‘Cause if not, I ain’t goin’ … my feeling is, since we ought to have sex at least once a day in this life, why not six times a day in that one?  As far as I know, the lad of my life would never think to disagree with that kind of math …

But can you just imagine that survey…having someone with a stethoscope, a tape recorder, and a pad and pencil hovering over EVERYTHING?????????

This is about…SEX.

Wow. Is it easy to get your attention with a statement like that. Three of you immediately signed up for whatever we’re going to do, Howard Stern’s producer speed dialed, and the President of the politically correct forces for good in the community instantly posted a red alert requesting volunteers to stage a protest. Calm down folks. But we do have some great sex news from the smart guys in the white lab coats at Duke University. They explained things clinically, like they always do, but we’ll translate it into “human speak”. I don’t know why they get so complicated. I think if they wanted to explain that they were out to lunch, they’d put up a little sign saying, “We have temporarily vacated these coordinates to engage in caloric nutritional mastication and enzyme secretion.”

But, forget how they said it, what it means is that people who just throw kisses at each other are really missing something. The study says that if you have sex 200 times a year, you will reduce your psysiologic age by six years. They know that because it says here, “they tracked the sexual activity of 4,589 people over the course of five years.” I’m not sure how you conduct a clinical, scientific study like that. Probably one way would be to take the idea from one of Barbara Streisand’s biggest hits, “Peep-holes, People Who Need Peep-holes….” And how come this is an odd number of people. 4,589. Maybe it started out as an even number but one of the scientists got so into it that he ditched his white lab coat and joined the party.

Another study that I think is really incomplete was published in England at the same time. This one says, they peeped in on…I’m sorry…they “tracked” 1,000 people and found only half the death rate among those who had two sexual encounters a week as compared to those who had sex once a month or less. The reason I think that study is incomplete is that I think if they do a follow up in around a hundred years, that death rate percentage is going to go way up. I’m not sure what kind of effect it would have on my sex life if I knew I was being, “tracked.”

This completely scientific information is the reason for a suggestion I made this morning to my Lady Wonder Wench. I said, “Let’s find eternal life!” She just rolled her eyes, took an asprin and got a headache. I don’t understand women. Of course Big Louie says that’s ok. That’s how it’s supposed to be. They make the rules, and they’re not telling guys what they are. I do try to figure it out. I try thinking like a woman. I try to look at things like a human being who is shorter and smarter than me. It doesn’t work. Especially that last part.

She doesn’t understand how my idea for a new cable tv channel would work at all. I have Direct tv, and they have a bunch of religious channels and a bunch of porno channels, and I noticed that they’re right next to each other on the cable tv guide. Inspiration hit me. I said I could make a fortune by combining them. I could start a channel called the “Oh God, yes, yes, yes, oh God please, yes, yes, yes,” Channel. The plan is I could sell commercials and claim a religious income tax exclusion on the profit. Why not. I would be promoting good health, long life, and praise for the lord. I’d tell the IRS that it’s just worship inspired by a different kind of prophet.

Dick’s Details Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1- How do a high percentage of American guys spend their lonely nights ?

2- How should couples deal with sleeping in separate beds ?

3- Why did dinosaurs walk on their toes ?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

They didn’t have sex education in schools when I was a kid. We did, however have record hops, which were to some extent somewhat up dated fertility dances. Especially when Louie Louie was playing. I remember those days fondly. And as a matter of fact I can still do the Mashed Potatoes, the Watusi, and even the Twist..although when I do them it makes my grandchildren very nervous. I went to a Catholic high school, so we didn’t do the Limbo…since Sister Mary Knucklebuster said the catechism defined limbo as a place where some people go when they die if they knock over the bar. The only way you’ll understand that point is by consulting the nearest Catholic.

But I digress. And when I do that I lose your attention. How do I get your attention back ? I know.

SEX.

There. Now let me tell you about one of the weirdest sexual experiences I’ve never had.

It was while I was doing the midday show at WPIX Radio in New York. The studio phone rang…actually they don’t ring, they light up, and this one really did. It was a guy named Al Goldstein. Al was the publisher of a magazine called “Screw.” Perhaps Screw magazine can best be described  by what was NOT. It was not a trade journal for carpenters. Al also produced a local access cable tv show called “Midnight Blue.” It was on at midnight, and it was very blue. For some reason, Mr. Goldstein thought it might be an interesting idea to have a locally known disc jockey star in his next “Midnight Movie.”

I am not often at a loss for words on the phone. But come on…walk a moment in my hormones. Unfortunately, Wonder Wench wasn’t in the studio, and so I had nothing to look at to keep my attention where it belongs…which was anywhere that Al wasn’t. I said something that sounded like “Gezornenplatz,”. Al said “gesundheit.” Then he said something about a blonde, a brunette, a redhead and me. All at once … just as a song was ending. There were a couple of live spots and a jingle that had to get on the air. And I had to do them. They were business… fortunately. Familiar patterns for a mind that had suddenly gone goofy-ly gynecological. I won’t lie. I was slightly tempted. But as soon as I replaced my eyeballs in their respective sockets, returned my tongue to its accustomed place between my teeth, and regained some control of one of my lungs, I did the commercials, played the jingle, and thought of an answer for Al. I think I said something like “Thank you thank you thank you thank you, no, but thank you thank you thank you thank you so very much. I honestly didn’t think Wonder Wench would have understood. And besides, those ladies are always wearing dangerously high spike heels. Always. Lots of times they wear nothing else but those high spike heels. I think they wear them in the shower…and even at the beach. You could poke your eyes out with those things…under some excessively enthusiastic circumstances.

So much for Peter North envy. (He’s today’s top male porn performer.) His neighbors say on his way to work, he is usually smiling, and singing, “There’s no business like show business.”

There’s a story about sex and smiles in the Night Connections 3 Personal Audio CD. It’s called Neighbors. It’s also in the current podcast.

The woman in the story was on the way to a job interview the  morning this happened. She got the job. It’s a good job. Good money. About a month later, when she could afford it, she moved to a better neighborhood.

“Neighbors” is from the Night Connections 3 Personal Audio CD. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections 3 icon on the home page.

I still think the “Oh God, yes, yes, yes, Oh God, yes channel” could work. Now, if you don’t pay for those porn channels, a little sign that says Channel not paid for comes up on the screen. Time was when the porn channels were just scrambled if you didn’t pay for them. The audio was still there, but the video was just a bunch of squiggly lines so you couldn’t see the pictures. They looked like my brain looks when my Lady Wonder Wench walks into the room wearing something she says is “a little more comfortable.” That gets me a little dizzy, but it keeps me happy.

Which is how you stay healthy and hot like my new book says. So don’t forget, get somebody’s attention 200 times a year. 200 times a year, not 200 times a day. That would probably be a world record, but an ER Doctor would probably have to track the last fifty or sixty times.

It would make me happy in a somewhat non-sexual way if you bought my new book, “Staying Happy, Healthy and Hot.” It’s at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and it should be in your favorite bookstore.

IT’S FULL OF SEX.

Aw, don’t scratch the fathead … there are lots of them filling up space on television and the internet … and even in our daily lives … and I don’t think they bleed like normal people.  But the rest of us take care of them, so it’s all right.  Because we’ve learned to spell “compromise” …

 You would never believe how the Louie Louie Lad went ballistic over the results of Sandy.  No computer, no hot water, no lights, no heat … sort of like it used to be when I was a kid and we lived in Nahant during a hurricane.  Come on, Lad, wasn’t it romantic?

 I thought it was.  It certainly FELT good in the dark …

I’m sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, enjoying lights and heat, and  fighting with my computer again, because our power is back on. Like lots of folks around here, we lost power during hurricane Sandy. We’re lucky. Our juice is back on and we’re cooking with it again. You don’t pay much attention to your juice till it stops running, and you can’t cook, and you’re getting cold. I was trying to unscramble some stuff on the computer when a screen came up that said press any key. I did. And the screen went dark. I was about to press every key…with a sledgehammer when I realized the power had shut down. We don’t know how to deal with that. It’s a reality dis-connection. I was on the air at WNBC radio in New York when the big blackout hit about thirty years ago. I called down to engineering to get them to start the generators. They said, “The book says we have to get the TV station up first.” I said, “How many battery operated TV sets do you suppose there are in New York.” They just hung up. We all do stuff like that. I’ll bet you’ve lost power and started  looking for a flashlight by flipping the light switch on the wall. We need our electric juice to keep the heat and lights on, just like we need our personal juice to keep our light sabers powered up to fight our constant battle against the bad guys on the Dark Side.

 There are lots of short circuits that can blow our fuses if we let them.  You get fired, or dumped, or sick. Short circuits like that can turn off your personal power lights…and that’s not much different from losing your electric power lights…if you’re not careful, you can walk right into a wall…or a fist.

 Big Louie, his own bad self predicted at the beginning of the recent election campaign, that this time, the politicians would manage to overcome voter apathy, and replace it with voter hatred. And he was right. We hit a national short circuit, and lots of us dis-connected from each other. We started milling around in the dark, running into walls, and sometimes fists.

My friend Al spent years enjoying cookouts and ball games with his buddy George, but they haven’t been talking to each other since this election campaign started. That’s because they’ve both done what the politicians told them to do…they dis-connected from each other. They did that when they both hit the delete button on the word “Compromise”.

 One prominent politician and un-reality TV star who doesn’t believe in compromises, is actually suggesting that we should overthrow the government. I thought that was illegal. In fact the word traitor comes to mind. And the governor of one of the states I’d kind of like to see us keep, because one of my brothers lives there, very famously said something to the effect that seceding from the union isn’t beyond consideration, because compromises are just for wimps. Tell that to the ghost of Abe Lincoln. Things are coming apart. We’ve got short circuits in our power supply.

 And the guys who are tossing their short circuit hand grenades into our lives know what they’re doing. They’re after our power supply. And they know that before they can have it, they have to dis-connect us first.

 Dick’s Details Quiz. All details are in the current podcast.

1-    What are some “female executives” carrying in their purses that is kind of sexy?

2-    What really happens at a sumposium ?

3-    What is a “Crapula?”

 Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

 Big Louie, his own bad self says, “A bad compromise is usually better than a good fight.” I remember when I was in high school, trying to convince several girls who wanted to remain fully clothed that some kind of compromise would keep their juices flowing. They seemed to understand that quite well, but mostly they were in favor of short circuiting my personal power.

 I was surfing on a tsunami of personal juices the day I met my Lady Wonder Wench. It was actually in a very proper office. She was standing there wearing a perfectly modest skirt and blouse, and we were talking about her doing some secretarial work for me. And all of a sudden, she smiled at me…standing there in that perfectly modest skirt and blouse, but that smile, and those eyes, hit my hormones big time, the juices started flowing so fast that I started seeing some things that weren’t really happening…like… in my head she was leaning down to adjust the straps on a pair of high heel shoes, and smiling up at me as she felt my eyes watching her. That modest blouse was open one extra button, and I couldn’t help notice that she was wearing black lace lingerie, and wearing it very well. Then…this is in my imagination remember… she stood up slowly…and with a wistful little girl smile…she smoothed out her skirt, stretched a little, and swiveled her hips as she stepped up on those high heels…gave me one more little sideways glance, tossed her soft, long brown hair once…and disappeared…into reality…in which she was just standing there in that perfectly modest skirt and blouse, and looking at me like…hello! Hello! Are you awake ? The circuits were all connected, and the juices were pumping pretty hard that day. There’s a story about what happened that night in the Bedtime Stories Personal Audio Cd, and in the current podcast. It is called, somewhat deceptively,  Nothing Happened.

 Every once in a while, my Lady Wonder Wench gives me that same kind of smile that’s in the story, and I swear I get a quick flash of the trace of perfume she left in my life that night, such a long time ago.

 Nothing Happened is from the Bedtime Stories Personal Audio Cd. If you like it, you can download it from the Bedtime Stories icon on the home page.

 A bad compromise is usually better than a good fight. A fight short circuits almost everything and it costs an awful lot of power. Wars are big fights. They usually leave even the winners  all out of juice in the cold and dark. In our personal lives, we’ve all seen Pimple People who never cry, and Dreary Drones who never laugh. That’s the way they are. No compromises.

 In the last few years, “Compromise” has become a dirty word in politics. Too bad. Think about the word. The first part of the word, “Com” is from the latin word “comis” which means friend. The rest of the word is spelled promise. Com-promise. So “compromise” means a promise of friendship. Sounds like a good way to re-connect our circuits and get our power pumping again. Working together like friends.

 Maybe we can get the power turned back on again before the next hurricane, or the next national election hits…get our juices flowing again. What do you say we keep the state of Texas, mess up The Donald’s comb over, and send some beer and brewskies to Al and George. And I promise I won’t hit my computer with a sledge hammer any more.

 I think we need to explain in words of one syllable to our politicians that “compromise” isn’t a dirty word. We should call them up and say, “Compromise means the promise of friendship, you fathead.” Whoops. Scratch the fathead.  

There are times when one of our proud podcast participants sends me something so awful, that I have to share it with you.

This is from P.P.P. Dick Stadlen, and old broadcasting buddy:

Word is that rap mogul Sean Diddy Combs is partnering with Dewar’s and Mountain Dew to put out a new citrus-flavored rum. They’re planning to market it as “Dewar’s-Diddy Rum Diddy Dew”.

Dick

You cannot expect me to endure such abuse without exposing the name of the abuse driver. I think he should have his abuse driver’s license suspended for that one.

Some of you think life as Big Louie’s apostle and Lady Wonder Wench’s “chief back rubber”  is all applesauce with whipped cream on it. No so. I have decided to expose some of what goes on behind the scenes of “Wonder Wench Writes.” For example, this e-mail just in:

I don’t care what kind of hat you all wear … there is nothing like the hat Indiana Jones wears.  Now THAT’S a fedora.  It climbs over cliff walls … and drives away killer ants … and never falls off, no matter how hard Indy rides … and swash buckles his grin …

Now my own Louie Louie Lad has that grin …So he can’t say shweetheart.  In my mind’s eye, he wears that fedora with panache.  No, Dickie Baby, not panuche.  Panache … savoir faire … elegance …

And he looks even better with JUST a fedora on …